Press release

The drop of water that takes you to paradise when you follow its path on the inn window on a sunny rainy day when you are awaiting your love.
The one that spoils everything at home when the tap has leaked for too long.
I remember drops of water, those caught in the spider’s web in the hawthorn bush, sending a blood red ray of light on autumn mornings as the sun rises. The other drop, lodged in a bindweed flower, a chalice for mysterious insects.
Drop by drop on the edges of umbrellas. Drops of rain, fat or light, disturbed by the least breeze or swollen with the pride of storms, heavy and conquering.
In horizontal battalions: winter rain of Scandinavian Isles.
Brecht-style rain? French-style rain? Curtains of rain, drizzle of fine drops, fogs.
And the drops collected in the unending pipes of immense towns: gurgling pipes, disgusting sewer pipes, water collectors, cataracts, bursts. Piping.

What else? With the public for the first nights.
Today, this is all we can say. See you soon.

NB:a part of the end of the text is untranslatable in English because of the puns. To read the complete orignial text please see the French version